The Immortal Game
by The Tyrant Hamster
Summary: A series looking at the origins of some of the lesser known players in the Devil May Cry world.
1. The Pawn

Some believe fate is a right to be granted. Others see it as a goal to be achieved. Then there are those who view it as something to be changed. Of course, many would claim destiny is a delusion of the powerless, but a lie believed in is stronger than an unknown truth.

Though he did not have a name, he had a fate. It was his fate... To die.

Born, or created, he did not know which, to be sacrificed in some grander design he neither understood or believed in, his role was unmistakable. He was a pawn, and all he knew was servitude to an unseen master that paid no heed to his existence, his birth, life and purpose handled by underlings who nevertheless held hierarchal superiority over him. He was a detail, a component, merely a nameless cog in Hell's machinery.

Much of his time was spent in the arcane sarcophagi of his birth; an appropriate home, for the physical confinement reflected the demure cage of his mind, un-nurtured intelligence fumbling pitifully with questions it already knew the answers to. He had no one to turn to; none of his creators cared for his mental welfare, if they were even aware it existed. He was raised for ceremonial slaughter, what point was there investing anything in his emotional stability? He could rot for all his masters cared, so long as he remained intact enough to fulfil his inglorious role.

That was his purpose, all the questions of being, of self and of life had their answers laid before him every day in all their ugly, miserable certainty. He did not know why in the sleepless periods he ventures beyond these plain explanations that nonetheless spoke truthfully of his meagre function. It was a futile endeavour, to seek a greater purpose for himself. He knew exactly why he was made and why he would die, the humble machinations of his part in the world lay naked of mystery or dignity. He understood that, and could accept it; well, most of him could, but one part...

Sometimes he would disobey. He did not truly know why he did it, but considering his ignorance of so much that determined his experiences, the act never stood out to him. When not in the tomb-like chamber that he was _stored_ in for considerable periods of time, he would often be made to fight. One of the few scraps of understanding he had stumbled across, gathered from overheard discussion among his taskmasters, was that these battles were tests, although whether he was the subject or experiment, or something else altogether he remained oblivious. All he knew is that he fought, they observed, and with dull monotony he moved forwards through the listless days, slowly incrementing his qualification for the unappealing destiny he was fashioned for.

He was told to fight, and sometimes he would. Occasionally it brought fleeting relief to release emotions he could not place in unrestrained violence, but more often than not it was unfulfilling. When he fought, he rarely lost, but whether this marked him as powerful, or his masters as careful not to prematurely lose their pawn, he could only ponder, when the thought crossed his mind. The closest thing in his life to an engaging occupation for his mind was learning the different opponents he faced, the ways of combat, and his own abilities. While he lacked the optimism to hope he was somehow remarkable as a warrior, he did note that, if his foes were any measure, his power to generate and manipulate energy, either for offence or the purpose of position, such as redirecting his movement in the air, was a rare gift. This brought him scant satisfaction.

He would fight, and often he would win. Sometimes he would lose, and sometimes he would disobey, would not fight, or would fight those he was not meant to, such as the ones who brought him to the arena of his battles. His insubordination was punished, of course, both in immediate retaliation by those he angered, and more thought out methods of torture meant to dissuade the act again. However, his punishment varied little from the numb suffering of his daily existence, so he was neither fearful nor deterred by the agonising pain. In truth, the relief from an otherwise monotonous life meant he almost enjoyed the torment, and came to find a bitter, insignificant but just palpable satisfaction in taking some miniscule control of his world, even if the result was only just distinguishable from that of inaction.

They continued to use him, though, and seemed more confident of their ability to deal with his outbursts than the setback to their objectives his premature death would incur. He was vaguely aware that those around him served some higher master, whom he deduced spared no mercy for them just as they did for him. This revelation was another morsel of satisfaction to him, but they were scraps to a ravenous void. Indeed, he once wryly thought in a rare moment of composure that were he to meet this invisible master, he would thank him for distributing misery with such equality. That was a dream, though, or would have been, if he knew the meaning of the word. What he saw of the world he lived in, cramped and decrepit as it was, outweighed his ability to comprehend its size and detail, and he knew he lived but under a rock, no, a grain of dirt, insignificant to the point of invisibility compared to the grand scale that his ultimate master ruled on.

He was no more aware of time than gravity; it was not a thing to measure but an unquestioned constant, featureless and unremarkable of experiences worth recalling despite his pitiful efforts to fly. However, as time did go by with little of his regard, he knew his fate; his doom to put it more fittingly, drew nearer to being a reality. He would be sacrificed as a humble servant to the grand schemes of his glorious master.

_Ha!_ His mind cried out, a vindictive repulsion flaring up from within him at this sardonically bastardised rendition of his fate. He stopped; that had felt, strange. A sudden welling up of motivation, as though denouncing his condemnation and those who wrought it upon him triggered some deeply-buried drive in him. He did not understand it, but since when had he understood anything? All he knew was, he... _Liked_ it. It brought him fulfilment that made his prior amusements seem like petty shadows in comparison. He wanted to do it again, but didn't know how. Reason gave way to frustration, and reaching down inside him, he yelled every single thing that had been said to him in an insulting tone he could recall, not even knowing what most of it meant.

Cursing and swearing incoherently at the top of his voice, he found the expression addictive, if slowly exhausting, and continued to do it. Eventually, his sarcophagi was opened, and one of his taskmasters appeared before him. Apparently he had another menial labour to perform, but the creature inquired, without a hint of compassion of course, after the noise he had been making. He said it was nothing, thus it was left at that. The slave driver moved to collect some implement or other from across the room.

He watched his superior move, and didn't realise he was slowly smiling in a way many would find disconcerting, especially were it directed at them. The remnants of his earlier explosion we're gathering themselves together in his mind like rebels attempting to overthrow a government and establish their own in its place, seeking to achieve some epiphany or other.

Slowly, for these were concepts he had never compared to one another, ideas began taking shape in his mind. He wanted to, fight the master with him... No, not to fight, to, _hurt_... Yes, when he fought, his foes sometimes managed to inflict attacks on him, and cause him pain. He would cause his master pain, and then... And then he would find others who ruled over him, and fight them, too. He should be able to kill a fair number, although he had no chance whatsoever of defeating them all, for he knew the minions around him were vastly beyond counting, but that would only lead to a death no more inevitable than the one he was born for. All these ideas made his mind scream insanity, and perhaps he had lost it, but something deeper in him, something, stronger, retorted, _what do I have to lose in the first place_? He didn't understand, but he had _never_ understood; what he did know is, the more he contemplated this grand defiance, the more he was filled by a sensation he had only felt the edge of in withered scraps and broken fragments before.

Yes. He would fight his masters, return to them the pain and promised oblivion they inflicted upon him. He would not serve their purpose but make one of his own; striking down as many of his tormentors as he could before death took him. It may be his destiny to die, but he determined that he alone would decide for what. Revelation and purpose coursed through him, and for the first time in his life, he found that he was excited.

By now his expression stated something was very much amiss. His superior noticed this, and demanded furiously an explanation. When one was not forthcoming, and instead his face split into a wide smile, something one in such an abysmal situation as his should never wear, the other creature showed the first signs of something he found so alluring; fear. Yes, it was beginning to fear him, and as he strode forwards silently, that fear grew like a cancer into reeking terror, pouring off the creature like a pungent aroma. It was like the smell of blood to a shark, and as his quarry gave an enraged snarl and went for a weapon, he leapt.

Covering the distance with blinding speed, his hand closed around the creature's head as its own did around the handle of a brutal instrument he had felt the touch of before. Smashing it against the wall, he crushed its skull with little resistance, watching the headless cadaver slump to the ground, and begin to rot where it lay.

Incredible! He had killed a few of his masters before, lowly creatures unfortunate enough to be in the path of his disobedience. Never before though had he done it with such intent, uninterested in the consequences it would bring. The feeling was, liberating, and he craved more.

Leaving the chamber that passed for his abode, he walked amongst the features of the place he never once thought to call home, unsupervised. It did not take long for someone to take notice of his unauthorised wanderings, and when he was confronted, rather than answering with words, he opened his mouth, and let his heart speak. What came out was a malevolent laugh, and exuberated by their uncertain and somewhat unnerved reactions, he attacked them. They required some skill and caution, but he revelled in the challenge like never before, and dispatched them in moments.

Time had never meant much to him, so it was only by the racing of his pulse that he measured his slaughter, as his vengeful rampage continued. He knew it could only be a matter of time before word of his actions spread, and more powerful beings were sent to eliminate him. He welcomed them, though, for he had been staring death in the face his entire life, and he saw nothing new to it now.

Eventually one came, a vicious brute of a beast. Though he did not know the word, he recognised certain similarities between it and some, lesser foes he had fought before, that marked both out as reptilian. Its scaled skin was thick as were the muscles beneath it, and the low, aggressive crouch it took spoke of both animal rage and lethal cunning. This was, he realised, no mere minion, but a warrior, its deadly bearing speaking of power and experience, such that it might rank high enough to etch out something for its own ends between serving the errands of its masters. Unlike him, this beast was respected and valued, if only marginally so, and when not spilling the blood of its masters' enemies, it was granted the leisure of servants to tends to its whims, from those that did its menial tasks to others who would serve its sick desires between the same powerful thighs that it now circled him with, given the honour of fulfilling its deepest depravities.

This was a being that exercised some degree of control over its fate, whereas he until had none. It was also learned in the ways of battle that put his scrapped together experiences to shame. This was the creature by whose gauntleted claw his fate would undoubtedly be fulfilled. Strangely, that didn't faze him in the least.

Snarling, the beast leapt as he did, and they clashed in midair. Raking and tearing at each other, he proved to be more of a challenge than it had expected, but not more than it could handle. Though he managed to evade some blows and even land a few of his own with cunning and guile, he was outmatched on every level, and found himself smashed against a wall, which cracked with the impact. Before he could rise, his opponent raised its arm and hissing, fired several claws on bloody trails, which embedded through his chest.

He could not move; even if not for the pain, the projectiles had him literally nailed to the wall. As the beast lumbered towards him to finish the job, he felt grim satisfaction that it would end at last. As the warrior's shadow fell across him, though, something else stirred within, a defiant spirit that cried _no! You still have strength, not until your last breath is spent shall you grant them once ounce of the mercy they denied you!_

For an instant, he was hesitant, but then, body soaked with blood and mind clouded, he thought, why not? As the creature loomed over him, he raised his uninjured arm, and with a crackling of crimson energy and a roar of defiance, threw a wave of raw focused force and power at his foe. The mighty blow struck the lizard before it could react to the unanticipated attack. Its right arm was cleaved clean off from shoulder to waist, and it tried hopelessly to clutch at the gigantic wound from which its innards were rapidly tumbling out.

In moments the beast was dead, and though he could have given up then and joined it shortly, he did not. Reaching down, he removed the spikes from his chest one by one, and slowly rose to his feet, still bleeding. There was more carnage to be wrought on his tormentors.

He continued to battle those he encountered, each fight becoming more dangerous than the last as he pushed himself to persevere despite his wounds. It was while battling with a highly skilled slave driver that the eventual master of his fate appeared. Unbeknownst to him, the warrior had just returned from slaughtering a settlement of their master's enemies, only to find the discord left behind by his path of destruction. Hunting down the cause of this disorder, the warrior found him and stepped in to intervene and put an end to this affront to his master's domain and rule. The slave-driver hastily lashed out at him to drive him off, intending to handle the vermin itself, but didn't even have time to realise the foolishness of its error as the warrior slew it in a single strike.

He was taken aback by such a display of power, and noticed that the slowly growing crowd that had come either to stop him, or merely sadistically enjoy the show of brutality, had all backed off from this newest arrival. Of course ignorant of the larger world, he did not recognise the warrior, but it was evident that he was someone of considerable repute, as the awed mutterings being passed around them would indicate. He thought he heard the word "Knight", and though he did not understand its full meaning, overheard talks of his former master combined with the awe with which the word was spoken told him he faced a mighty foe.

The warrior spoke, and did so with undeniable authority. At his bidding the situation was quickly explained to him, while he, the escaped _nothing_, watched from within the circle of onlookers they two alone occupied, his lust for vengeance curbed temporarily by curiosity.

After several moments, the warrior addressed him, and demanded to know his cause. In answer, he replied that he was born only to die, and was living out his fate as he saw fit. The warrior asked him then why did he attack his masters and disobey if he did not even seek to change his fate. He replied that he would rather die by a means of his own choice then that of those he owed nothing to. The warrior seemed surprised by this, and asked why he would squander what meagre purpose he had defying the reason for his own being. He replied that even if he had nothing to fight for, he would rather fight against something worth opposing than fight for no purpose at all.

There was a long silence, save for the perpetual murmurings around them. Just when the situation seemed as if it would boil over, the warrior spoke, and said that he would have to slay him. He answered that he knew this, and whether or not he could win, he would fight.

The battle was brief, as the warrior struck him down with incredible ease, hurling his bloody form back with one slash of his mighty sword. He landed in a barely conscious heap, near the ravenous crowd that would no doubt no rip him to shreds and bring an end to his meaningless existence. His masters moved in to kill him at last... And then were stayed by a single word from the warrior. Approaching his downed opponent, the victor of the battle looked him over. He faintly heard the knight declare he was claiming him for himself, and patiently waited for the deathblow. It never came.

The knight spared him, and like everything that had come before, his life was controlled by machinations he did not understand. The knight took him under his wing, seeing to it that he was first healed, and then began training him as a servant. For the longest time, he did not understand why, and sadly, his master would not ever use the chance to explain it to him, before it was too late. However, on that day, the knight and he each taught something to the other they had never seen before. The warrior showed him the meaning of mercy, and though did not know it, he in return introduced for the first time to the knight a new idea. That concept was rebellion, and it was the name he was given by the knight, though only the knight would ever know this.

Thus it was that within the dark knight a seed was planted that would one day blossom, changing forever the fates of both his own world, and another.

As for he who had once been nameless, he remained loyal to his new master's side, and eventually left the world that had spawned him without purpose behind. His role remained one of service, and it was often overshadowed by others. However, he would one day return at the right hand of the son of his savour to remind his former masters what becomes of a pawn should it be allowed to reach the end of the board...


	2. The Rook

It is often said that history is written by the victors. Perhaps it is the doing of these authors triumphant that the full extent of the truth is rarely fathomed; not merely the past, but present and future too are ordained by the powers that be. Few ever have chance to stumble upon a loose thread, and learn how the very underlying fabric their systems of values and thought are woven from, are designed by the hands that pluck the strings.

So very few are truly enlightened to the puppetry of their own existence.

The mind of Hell is one of undulating madness; the mentality of its denizens was wrought of such volatile lunacy that any vestiges of reason or order which surfaced were inevitably overturned, like driftwood in churning oceans. Whether or not it was loyal to anything else, the Demon World always returned eventually to its true nature; uninhibited anarchy. Though it may exhibit durations of slumber, disorder was immortal.

There were occasions, however, when a power arose that was so great, Hell itself was bound and bent into its servitude, for a time. This was such an era, and though to an outsider the turmoil would seem unabated, it was a period of relative order under the throne of Mundus, the self-proclaimed Emperor of the Underworld.

Beneath this deity's rule, concepts and cultural notions heretofore incomprehensible arose, alien ideas that held value in the lord of Hell's designs. His machinations were unfathomable, but his power was absolute, and this, _this_ the residents of Hell understood well, the age old mandate of might being the closest thing the Demon World had to law. And so his biddings were done.

Unprecedented roles were created in the empire to serve Mundus' purposes, and in time, filled. The holder of one such position ventured through the teeming throngs of demons to his abode now. He was an enigma; the ululations of chaos he traversed amongst were, to him, a grotesque vulgarity, inspiring smug revulsion.

He was a frail being, by the standards of those he spat at the notion of considering his peers. Gaunt and tall, his physical prowess matched only the lowest of his despised kin, and he was no match for even the semi-sentient creatures that swarmed around him. He was a runt; while fully capable of motion his lack of power marked him as a cripple to other demons. Not long ago, he would have been slaughtered without a thought.

The thought brought the vestiges of a delighted smile to his taut lips, as his vehicle crushed the bodies of several of his would-be unmakers, who were not swift enough to escape its crushing, barbed wheels. The very device he rode through the crowd now was a testament to how much things had changed. The chariot was a thing of his own devising; crafted under his careful oversight, it was a creation of his own mind, made according to designs intricate and complex he himself devised. It brought him a scintillating gratification as he listened to the burly forms of its victims be crushed and broken under its weight, each snap of bone and crackle of carapace a note in the melody of vindication he revelled in. They were _beneath him_, and it was to his malevolent delight that he could exact such a fitting metaphor for the truth upon those who would have dared hold him in similar contempt. He was not even moving at any great speed, the masses were simply too dense, in more ways than one, to make passage for his vehicle, lacking even the barest scraps of cognitive reasoning required to act cohesively for mutual benefit. They were _pathetic_, he mused with vitriolic disdain.

His chariot brought him in time to his residence, a heavy gate of steel, bone and thorn sealing him off from the slavering masses outside. He disembarked and ordered some chained servants to tend to the horse that drew his carriage. The infernal stallion had smashed many dithering scum with its malicious hooves on the journey, much to his delight, and the dark steed would be rewarded for its actions. Indeed, it was one of his favourite pets, and each time he laid eyes upon its flaming, cerulean mane, he was reminded fondly of how he had broken the once noble beast into his servitude.

But now was not the time for such musings, and as he left the lowly scum to tend to the creature, he walked into an adjacent hall, closing the door behind him. A sigh of relief escaped his mouth; he was alone. Much as he enjoyed trundling over the miserable creatures of this world to punish him for the torments he had felt from their kind, their incessant gibbering clawed at his prodigious mind, grating against his fortified reason.

He was _Koor_, A name he had claimed for himself, having uncovered it in his studies. The closest translation of it was "Clown", or "Trickster"; it was intended as a form of insult, but literally meant one who mocks all around themselves. Koor took a conceited mirth in bestowing upon himself a moniker that the foolish would use as an insult, unaware that it was _they_ it ridiculed.

Koor often indulged in such retaliations against a world that rejected and hated what he was. Though frail of body, he was unlike any other creature in all Hell, in that he possessed a towering and mighty intellect. Even the great and powerful Mundus was but a dabbling infant in the mental realms compared to him. It was for this reason that the demonic savant found favour with the emperor, for he could devise and fathom matters that eluded even the grasp of the mighty lord of the Underworld. He was perfectly aware of the nature of his relationship with the deity; he was but a tool to Mundus, an invaluable asset, but only an asset none the less.

This mattered little to him, though; in fact the notion was entirely mutual. Although Koor saw in Mundus a rare and gifted mind, the god-like entity was still far inferior to him, and he had long ago given up trying to find an equal in the emperor, who was as brutish and crude as the very demons he lorded over, however he sought to mask it with eloquent vocabulary, and displays of his prowess at doing the unimaginable to most.

He was just using Mundus himself. The emperor's protection saw to it that he was virtually unhindered in his studies and experiments, and although he was distracted and at times aggravated by the demands of his so-called lord, he was fully aware of the incalculable benefits of fulfilling his wishes, and so he made what concessions he had to in order to maintain his arrangement with Mundus. As much as he was disapproving of the ruler of Hell's boorish agenda, he feared his disfavour and took vehement steps to avoid incurring it.

_Besides_, he reminded himself as he travelled the halls of his domicile, although Mundus' goals were a sadly crude and deplorable affair, the steps required to achieve them brought opportunity for some truly intriguing experiments and studies. In his "service" to the emperor, he had tested countless theories, and garnered truly unimaginable bounties in the form of insights; amounting invaluable wisdom in a myriad of areas, including the very nature of existence and life itself, further empowering his formidable mind. Even with his colossal intellect, he could not have uncovered half of what he knew now without the many experiments he had, over time, conducted, or the devices he had been provided the resources to construct. Uncountable lives had been sacrificed in his studies, but to him it wasn't even the price of progress, for although Koor was not enslaved to the mindless bloodlust and instincts to cause suffering other demons were, he was apathetic to the fates of the worthless, and from his perspective few were exempt from this status. All that mattered were his studies.

He had created countless artefacts for the desires of Mundus, or his own intrigues, or sometimes both. They all held a degree of his interest at one time, but _none_ had so engaged his enthusiasm as that which occupied his thoughts now. He moved with fervour to the chamber of his destination; it was time to talk to the _cattle_.

That was his word for them, the creatures of the other world. He was aware they called themselves human; he had once, too, when they held his curiosity at its strongest. But he had long ago lost what little hope he'd held for them, they were as pitiful as his own brethren. When he had first had chance to study the cattle, he had been enamoured; these unusual creatures seemed far less savage and feral than the denizens of his own realm, and for a time he hoped he might find a true equal among them. But alas, the more he studied them, the more their alluring illusion of sophistication came unravelled. To his dismay he found there was little to separate the majority of them from his own despised kin, a bitter disappointment to Koor. They championed notions of intellect, and had invented countless novel concepts such as honour, mercy and love. But all their ideologies were as fragile as glass, and he saw through them all too soon as they were readily discarded, the appalling old law of power ruling all, and those who could inflict suffering on others doing so without even knowing why or considering the greater advantages of cooperation, were painfully obvious to Koor's eyes.

No, the cattle were nothing, a monumental disappointment, _worthless_. He had for a time pursued studying them anyway, to understand the differences between their world and his. Perhaps he contemplated now, in hindsight, he was deluding himself with hope that they would deliver more than a morsel of what they had promised. He had conducted research and experiments, but all he uncovered was hypocrisy. The term cattle was one of their own language, used to refer to more primitive creatures they imprisoned and unthinkingly slaughtered without concern. Koor was aware humans viewed his kind as something they called "evil", and he had in time come to understand the meaning of the term. He had experimented with countless abducted humans, attempting to find some shred of worth in their puny minds. Apparently demons were evil because they hunted and killed humans without remorse, driven to do so to feed a primal hunger. At the same time, these same humans slaughtered other creatures in their own world so as to satiate their own primitive needs.

He had at first put it down to necessity, but after discovering that humans were quite capable of sustaining themselves off of non-sentient life forms that grew with abundance in their world, and that they were _aware_ of the fact, and continued to massacre living creatures, he had become rapidly disillusioned. He had shown this comparison to many of his subjects, but no matter how he tortured and bent their minds, no matter how he unravelled their very psyches, and probed their souls, he could find no satisfactory answer. Some would say the creatures they killed were beneath them, that it was their right to prey on them; some had even gone so far as to contrive elaborate works of fiction, filled with nonsensical higher beings who condoned all they did, a convenient excuse to abdicate responsibility for their actions. Whenever he showed them the truth, in all its naked clarity, that just as their cattle were supposedly beneath them, so too were they beneath his kin, and if one atrocity was justified so too was the other. Koor felt he had been nothing short of generous to the humans; he had spent a great deal of his invaluable time, diligently dissecting the minds of countless of their number, making sure to take samples from all across the spectrum of their diverse kind. Children, adults and elderly; men and women; people from all over the world, none were excluded in selection or in the nature of their examinations. Few even approached a basic level of understanding, and those rare ones that did at least grasp their own folly he granted comparatively merciful deaths, mainly out of a sense of efficiency, since he had achieved a result, but maybe their was a flicker of sentiment too for the tiny spark of mind they showed.

For the most part though, they disappointed Koor direly, the vast majority unable to comprehend the simple, elementary logic of their contradicted thinking, even with his most patient explanations and demonstrations. Most either broke down and ceased to function, or held on to some stubborn, irrational defiance, a refusal to even consider his words that angered him, for it reminded him of the blind hatred his own species exhibited.

All that was a bygone interest to him now. What captivated him instead was a plan of Mundus' devising. He normally held the emperor in a view of mixed disdain, tolerance and fear, but in this instance, he had to put aside such thoughts and concede admiration. Mundus' idea was genius; a merging of the worlds, _incredible_!

Koor had been surprised and ashamed at first that he had not thought of such a possibility sooner. It was in afterthought he realised Mundus' unbridled ambitions would have focused his attentions on such a notion, drawing him to it in favour of other, also worthy intellectual pursuits. Any feelings of hurt pride soon gave way to fascination for the project, however. For time untold it had been possible to cross the threshold that separated the Demon World from that of the cattle, but it was a difficult affair, the requiring expenditure of time and resources that could be better spent elsewhere, Koor deemed. However this, this was in an entirely different realm of potential. To eliminate that divide, even _he_ could scarcely conceive the possibilities of it.

It was a great task, unprecedented in vision, but Koor was enthralled by the challenge as well as the results. Mundus could never do this without him, and he knew once it was done his rewards would be without limit. An entire _world_ to experiment on and study freely. The potential to learn wouldn't merely double, it would increase exponentially. To Koor it was much more than a dream; he would reshape the very universe itself.

Of course, such an audacious endeavour would require equally daring measures to accomplish. He was by nature methodical and calculating in his actions, but this was beyond even his capabilities to decipher alone.

This was where the cattle came in, the lowly creatures he would now communicate with as he entered into the chamber he had sought. Within in it was a powerful device with which he could pierce the barrier that held the worlds apart, allowing him to communicate with those on the other side. And there they were, all waiting for him. _The greatest minds of their time_, ha! Koor knew this is what they considered themselves, and sadly at least as far as their own world was concerned, their mediocre intellects were uncontested. He had poured a great deal of effort into educating cattle who showed some promise, luring them to his cause by appealing to their base desires while doing his beast to nourish the feeble, weed-like intellects that was present in their minds. It perplexed him to this day the motivations behind some of their desires; in fact, he was more certain now than ever of their inane worthlessness, so alike the demons they looked down upon. It was vaguely disgusting to him, what they wanted, whether it was power to inflict pointless misery on others of their own kind, or some truly bizarre individuals who sought intimate interactions with creatures that they would otherwise flee, screaming in mad horror from. Koor pushed such fruitless ponderings from his mind.

He spoke with the cattle for some time, biting down the bile in his throat as he pretended to talk to them as equals, which for all its insanity they seemed to demand. All seemed to be going promisingly, the group of cattle he had selected and trained, those who "Revered Evil", as they so put it, were with the aid of minions sent to them by Mundus' demand, building a grand tower of Koor's architect. This glorious edifice was the culmination of over a decade of research and experimentation, and once completed, would facilitate passage between the two worlds effortlessly. It would become Hell's first great bastion on Earth, as the cattle called their own world; really, Koor spat, what primitive consciousness names the whole of their environment by the same word they describe the insignificant dirt they walk upon? What baffling stupidity, once this tower, this Temen-Ni-Gru, was established, their world would belong to the demons, and with the building of more such conduits, Koor's ultimate plans would see the rift between the two worlds nullified; a complete merge.

This was Koor's _life_, he had given up almost every other pursuit and dedicated himself to this. Mundus was pleased with his progress, not that he showed any real appreciation beyond orders to continue instead of for his execution, but Koor didn't care; this was _much_ more important to him than the emperor's inferior mind. Indeed, if he could one day harness the power to do so, he would overthrow the current ruler of the Demon World, and had in fact made some investigations into such a weapon. However, project Nightmare was far, far from even the earliest stages of actualisation, while the Temen-Ni-Gru was rapidly nearing completion.

Koor didn't become aware of the events that led to his downfall until it was far too late. He took as little of an interest in what happened in the Demon World as he could. The petty squabbles of the worthless scum infesting the place were inconsequential unless they impacted on his research, and since he was in Mundus' favour, this rarely occurred. He remained oblivious, deep within his sanctuary, as rebellion shook the very foundations of Hell. It was not until the aftermath that he was made aware of it, or its implications for him.

Without warning his dwelling was attacked, and in mere minutes it had been reduced to rubble in the search for him. He was dragged out, raving in outrage and fear, demanding to know what why this was happening. As he was brought forth, he was able to piece together what had transpired from the chattering around him.

Mundus' most powerful servant, Sparda, had rebelled, and as preposterous as the notion was, had somehow overcome the forces of Hell and the emperor himself. The worlds had been sealed apart, the Temen-Ni-Gru riddled with safeguards and magical locks by the dark knight and his, rendering it useless. Though Mundus was beaten in battle, he was not slain, but crippled and sealed until he could recover from the battle. He was still the emperor of Hell, and though he was broken himself, his still lout minions carried out his will, which included the price of failure. Despite having no part in it, the fall of the Temen-Ni-Gru was placed on Koor.

The terrified genius was thrown before the emperor's still most powerful servant, the Griffon. Koor thought of the great bird of the storms as one of the few worthy minds in the world besides his own and Mundus'; he tried to appeal to Griffon, but the mighty creature would not listen. No matter what he said, even that he too would in the end be betrayed by Mundus, the avian demon's loyalty to his emperor outweighed his intellect.

Koor knew the moment that he saw the Griffon that his punishment if he could not elude it would be severe, as Mundus' greatest servant had been sent to see to its administration. He was not mistaken, and it was with shrieking horror that he was taken to one of his own creations. A device he had built in order to extract from its victims information, it was a masterpiece of torture, using matter and magic to operate on the mind, body and soul of its subject in order to clinically dissect and engineer their being however was desired. There was nothing that they wanted to know from him though, only for him to be destroyed. The device was activated, and with a numb terror, Koor experienced firsthand the meticulously calculated agony he had designed, as it was performed on _his own mind_. In less than an hour his whole world had fallen apart, and without Mundus' favour, the chaos of the Demon World consumed his very soul, eroding and destroying his incredible mind.

When the device had run its course, he was dragged out from its grip a changed demon. His body had been warped by its influence, made stronger, in fact, although his mind had been reduced to a gibbering insanity.

He was not granted death; Mundus' punishment for his failure was to exist as an avatar of the very mindless creatures he had so despised, so deformed of mind and body even, other demons saw him as a contemptible freak. He was made strong enough to survive so that he would not die easily, and suffer long for his failure.

Indeed he did suffer, for two millennia he was trapped in his own insanity. His mind was not even a shadow of its former self, a travesty of twisted humour and thoughtless sadism. Then, one day, he was contacted by a mind, a dark, powerful, deceitful mind; a mind tainted by evil. A _human_ mind. For but a moment, memory stirred with recognition; he did not know this being, but it reminded faintly him of ones he had once known.

The vestiges of his sanity were long lost, however, and he brushed this aside in a fit if insane laughter. The mind proposed an alliance with him, and the demon that was once Koor accepted. The two beings, became one, merging into the human's body as a host. Despite this, the human wished to maintain his own identity, and required a name for the demon, to distinguish them. All this was nothing but amusing to the demented being, who again vaguely recalled; a name, it had had meaning, _Clown_? The demon grinned; he was _Jester_.


End file.
